


Nero Wolfe's Caffeine Agency

by neveralarch



Category: Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:43:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21950158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: At five fifty-three AM exactly, I was cleaning the heads of the espresso machine and arguing with Fred Durkin. Normally five fifty-three AM is a time of night that I don't see except to roll over in bed, but that morning I had maneuvered my way into opening the coffee shop for a very particular reason which Fred was obstructing.
Relationships: Archie Goodwin/Saul Panzer
Comments: 24
Kudos: 53
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Nero Wolfe's Caffeine Agency

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nestra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! This is a treat that got a little long - hope you enjoy :) Thanks for a great prompt!

At five fifty-three AM exactly, I was cleaning the heads of the espresso machine and arguing with Fred Durkin. Normally five fifty-three AM is a time of night that I don't see except to roll over in bed, but that morning I had maneuvered my way into opening the coffee shop for a very particular reason which Fred was obstructing.

"But I'm not sick," said Fred, completely missing the point as usual.

"You were sick," I said. "You were hacking up your lungs last night, and you called in."

"Yeah, but I woke up this morning and I felt better," said Fred.

"You called in!" I shook a grounds-covered rag at Fred. "You called in and then Wolfe had to get filler help and then _I_ convinced Orrie to trade shifts even though it meant getting up while it’s still dark out and now I get here and I find _you_ at your post! What do you mean by becoming such an upstanding member of the workforce all of a sudden?"

"Oh." A sly grin stole over Fred's face like a thief stumbling through the night. "You thought you were gonna open with Saul."

I started cleaning the steamer with more fervor than strictly needed.

"You should just ask him for his number," said Fred, who was married and hadn't had to flirt or even date for about a thousand years and just didn't understand what it was like to look and long at your fellow barista from across the coffee urns.

Fritz came out of the kitchen with a load of scones, sausage rolls, and croissants, like a knight with bready armor.

"Fritz," I said, "look at Fred. Doesn't he look sick? Shouldn't he leave?"

"He seems fine," said Fritz, obtusely. "Probably it was nothing, an allergy."

"You know what I'm allergic to," said Fred, "I'm allergic to missing a shift's worth of hours. I need that money for my kid's fifth birthday."

"I'll give you the money," I said, dramatically. Then, rationally, I reconsidered. "Will a double sawbuck do it?"

"More like a pair of Benjamins," said Fred.

"You don't get paid that much," I said. "Do you get paid that much? Fritz—"

"I'm the baker, not the payroll," said Fritz, and disappeared back to the kitchen.

Apparently that closed the discussion. Certainly I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Saul was not here; Fred was. Alas.

"Go unlock the doors, will you?" said Fred.

"Unlock them yourself," I said. "That's why they pay you the big bucks."

Six AM is rush hour when you have a coffee shop on the south side of West 35th Street. You get the joggers, who want americanos and flat whites, but don't actually know what those things are and have to dump half a canister of sugar into their cup once they realize what they've ordered. You get the high-flying business people, rushing to work and desperate for an espresso that they can shoot down with a honey-butter and brown sugar scone chaser. And you get the night workers on their way home, picking up a plain black coffee that'll keep them awake long enough to see their kids to the school bus.

"Hey, Archie," said Fred. "Can I get a large half-caf soy vanilla caramel latte, no foam, and a heart drawn in the middle?"

"No," I said, already spinning around with the icepick yanked out of the dipwell. "Who ordered that? Lattes don't _have_ foam, you don't have to-"

Saul Panzer, bundled up in a winter coat and a scarf that set off his eyes, waved at me. I waved back, realized I was still holding the ice pick, and forced a laugh.

"Stab, stab," I said. "Haha. Joking. Joking. Is that really what you ordered?"

"I didn't ask for the heart," said Saul. "And if I'd known you were slinging the drinks, I wouldn't have even mentioned the foam."

Saul doesn't work for Wolfe's Caffeine Agency full time. He says he likes the freedom he gets from free-lancing, picking up shifts here and there at every high-end coffee shop in the city. He's probably the best barista I know, surpassing even your truly. And Wolfe says my cappuccino is acceptable. He doesn't think anyone's cappuccino is acceptable.

"That'll be six fifty," said Fred. "And we need your phone number."

Saul handed Fred a five and a couple ones, and dropped another dollar in the tip jar. "For what, a mailing list?"

"We don't need your number," I said. "Fred's just clowning."

"I'm deadly serious," said Fred. "Archie's madly in love with you, and—"

"Stab, stab," I growled, and Fred wisely shut up. I got busy making Saul's horrible drink. Pulling the normal _and_ the decaf shots, rooting around in the fridge until I found the soy milk, filling the cup half up with glorified sugar syrup.

When it was done, I painstakingly drew a heart in the top of the (unfoamed) latte. I don't normally play with latte art, Wolfe doesn't pay anyone enough to doodle birds or fractal patterns in the coffee. But sometimes you make an exception.

"Thanks," murmured Saul, when I delivered it to him at the pick-up counter. "Listen, I gotta go to the Daily Perk, the manager called in. But I'll be off-shift at five." He handed me a card.

I took it with a shaking hand. _Saul Panzer_ , it said. _Barista for hire._ It had a phone number, and I hoped to god it was actually his. "I'm off-shift at three."

"I know." Saul smiled. "You can take the time and think of a good place to go to dinner." He leaned forward and kissed my cheek, and then took his leave.

I'm six foot even of suave and experienced American gentleman, but I'm not embarrassed to say that I blushed.

But I am embarrassed to say that I whooped loud enough to make a jogger drop his flat white the second that Saul closed the door behind him.

\---

Wolfe came down from his apartment above the coffee shop just after eleven, as usual.

"Mr. Wolfe!" I called. "I need your help with something."

Wolfe grunted and turned toward the kitchen.

"Mr. Wolfe," begged Fred, "please. He's been bouncing off the walls for the last four hours."

"I just need a restaurant recommendation. Fred said Olive Garden."

"I did _not_ ," said Fred, scrambling out from under the bus I'd thrown him at.

Wolfe ponderously turned and came up to the counter. At this time of day the coffee shop was just another place for people to sip on chai and pretend to be working, and the counter was deserted. I leaned over it and smiled as wide as I could manage.

"A restaurant recommendation," Wolfe repeated. "The occasion?"

"I'm taking Saul out," I said, proudly.

Wolfe raised his eyebrows. "Is it his birthday?"

"It's a date," said Fred. "I finally got Archie his number."

"He gave me the number, it was one hundred percent won with my charm and intellect."

"You will go to Rusterman's," said Wolfe. "I'll call and ensure that there is a table." He turned back to the kitchen.

"Boss, I—" Wolfe kept going, so I jumped over the counter to follow. "I can't afford Rusterman's."

Wolfe frowned. "Don't jump like that. You'll break your neck."

"I know that Saul is a special guy," I said, ignoring this distraction, "and he certainly deserves Rusterman's. But unless you want to bump me up a couple tax brackets, Rusterman's isn't happening."

Wolfe considered this. For half a second I honestly thought he might go for raising me to thirty an hour, just for the sake of Rusterman's. But no.

"I'll pay for the dinner," he decided. "On one condition."

"Anything," I said.

"If you marry him," said Wolfe, "use your leverage to convince him to come and work for me. Full time. I’m sick of being short-handed and no one else meets my standards."

"Marry?" I choked a little. "Wolfe, we're going on our first _date_."

"I'm making an investment," said Wolfe, and took three _hundred_ dollars out of his pocket. "Don't disappoint."

\---

The thing about a dinner date is, if you're having a really, really good one, you don't even taste the food.

Saul and I made an effort anyway. This was Rusterman's, after all.


End file.
